


The Subtleties of Fate and Destiny

by sparkly_butthole



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canonical Character Death, Dead metaphor, Light Angst, M/M, Seriously guys I beat this metaphor into the ground, True Love, philosophical musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:24:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11883114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_butthole/pseuds/sparkly_butthole
Summary: Kaidan Alenko and Commander Shepard were always fated to be together until the bitter end. But there is a difference between fate and destiny, and the two of them must discover it together. Along the way, they learn what it really means to be part of an epic tale- and it’s the journey, rather than the destination, that makes it one.





	The Subtleties of Fate and Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry into the Mass Effect Big Bang 2017. It's been an honor to work with the wonderful [vonuberwald](https://vonuberwald.tumblr.com/) for the amazing artwork and with my beta, [ellebeedarling.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ellebeedarling/pseuds/ellebeedarling) I couldn't have done it without them!

 

**Now: London**

 

Adrenaline, the beam to the Citadel: those are the only things that exist. All other processes stop or at least slow to a crawl in the face of the beam and your breath, heavy and pounding out of you into the cold London air. Or your heart pounding inside you, trying to keep the cold of the London air out. To keep you warm, to keep you moving.

But there is also Shepard. For me, there’s Shepard. So it has been for years now, or for my whole life, if you really want to boil it down. I was once young enough to believe that things happen on accident, but here in London, the shape of fate is making itself clear to me. Those three things were all that ever existed. 

So it’s the adrenaline, the beam, and Shepard. 

Can the weight of those things be contained in mere words? What do they each mean, how are they defined? Does the language in which they’re read matter?

Semantics aren’t usually what’s on the reader’s mind at this point in the story. The question we all ask at moments like this is: how will it end? You’re invested. Too invested to put the book down, but afraid of what it’ll do to you. How it will affect you later. Like you are the one running down a crowded London street, surrounded by the dead. Knowing the one you love is set to die tonight.

You’ll feel the weight of it all later, and maybe that’s the point. The end means nothing without the words that lead up to it. The words will soak into you and live in the dark spaces, and you’ll wonder what they mean, and whether you appreciated them while they were there. Before you put the book down… or before the book puts you down.

Words like  _ adrenaline _ . Words like  _ beam _ . 

Words like  _ Shepard _ . 

Being able to define such heavy things is important. Not just for you, but for me also. Because I’m living it. I am the one in the London street. 

And because the words will hurt me, too.

Maybe knowing the story from the start is the only way to learn the vocabulary. 

Go back to the beginning. The end is not all there is.

 

**Then: Vyrrnus**

 

Well, this isn’t how I wanted the story to start.

Every day is hell. Every evil thing you could think of, it’s all thrown at us here. Freezing. Burning. Starvation, so much of it that it’s become an old friend. Broken bones, broken hearts. Sometimes even broken minds, those of us who need to be put into a padded room. Better than being put to death. Or maybe better, I don’t know. Feels like I don’t know much of anything. 

I wonder if it’ll always be that way.

“Kaidan, it’s so good to see you.” She looks tired, worn out, far older than the teenager she is. Older than she has any right to be, older than she should be. We’re just kids. What kind of person would write such a thing? 

This is too heavy a question for a seventeen-year-old. It’s unfair, but being written into existence always is. It’s not up to you that you’re here. Is it up to you what you do with it? 

The jury’s still out on that one.

“Rahna.” 

An acknowledgement. I was never much for words. At least not the kind you speak out loud.

She smiles, and it’s radiant. It lights up the room. I am awed by her beauty, as I was from the moment I saw her. She drew the short end of the stick, being stuck with me as a friend. Or at least the closest thing to a friend someone could have in this despicable place. 

“Do you think he’ll let us work together today?”

“No.” 

She nods. It isn’t a nod of skepticism, or even of disappointment. It’s like asking whether or not it will rain later, or if this is a good thing to eat for dinner. It’s just a fact of life. See, the writing is there, is being set to paper as we speak. All we have is to live it. We don’t know any better. We don’t know that there’s any other way.

If we had known, things would have worked out differently. After all, the foreshadowing is obvious. It weighs heavy in the air and in the lungs. 

Would we know how to escape it, even if it occurred to us that we could?

The turian approaches with something akin to swagger. It’s frightening to see. Turians don’t swagger. But this one does, somehow. My gut stirs uneasily.

“You have ten minutes to finish breakfast. I suggest you stop talking and focus on more important matters.” For some reason, he glares at me. Like I’m the villain.

The uneasy feeling grows.

Rahna reaches out for the pitcher of water, using the hands billions of years of evolution gave her instead of the biotics we’ve had for only a decade. It’s not with the intent of disobedience. I don’t even think she means to save herself the nosebleed, although she should. One day they might send her home in a padded cell, or even worse, a box. That’s enough to make me madder than hell.

So when the turian breaks her arm, the adrenaline is all there is. Her scream propels me, and power flows through me. I channel dark energy. I am a god: the god of fools, the god of youth. I think I can do anything, believe the author is there to write me out of it if it comes down to that. 

This situation isn’t enough for me to try writing the story myself, don’t get me wrong. It’s just instinct, a thing that always existed. I didn’t put it there. I didn’t know I could put anything there.

The turian’s neck snaps with an audible pop. He’s dead before he even hits the ground. The others approach cautiously, but I hang back. Rahna hangs back, too. She understands the implication of what I just did. The consequences. 

“Rahna, I…” 

There’s fear in her eyes, but the worst is the pity. I killed a person, and even she knows she’s not the hero. She’s not worth the sacrifice I just made.

But I am definitely not the hero, either. That would have been cute and fluffy, a ‘feel good tour-de-force’ as the critics would say. Not the epic it will actually become, but one some less-tempered minds would find more palatable. 

Yet what we all need here, whether we want it or not, is something a lot heavier, something we might have trouble chewing and swallowing. Rahna is not it, and I’m only part of the equation. The least important part. The constant, not the catalyst. 

Nevertheless, I’m done with just being written. If this is happening whether I asked for it or not, I’m damn sure gonna have a say in it somewhere. Somehow.

One chapter in, and the damage is there. I have a feeling this will be well-worn by the end. I only hope it becomes well-loved, too- or at least worth the paper it’s written on.

 

**Now: The Normandy**

 

A Mako is not going to take me down. He calls the Normandy anyway. 

But the haze is there. The blood haze, the one only soldiers recognize. Rather, only soldiers should recognize it, because I’m certain most people in these dark days have an inkling. 

I tilt my head to the left, chin up. Defiant.  _ I’m not going anywhere, John. _

His face hardens. The lines lengthen, the impossible angle of his jaw sharpens more. _ Don’t argue with me, Kaidan. _

Head back, leaning on the Mako for support as the Normandy flies low overhead. Eyes close. Open. _ You think I can’t fight more? You’re sadly mistaken. _

I watch his face carefully. Both brows draw down, both eyes narrow. Plump lips thin. I read him loud and clear, even a blind man could, and I want to Throw him across the field. 

_ Obviously you can’t fight more. Are you an idiot? _

Dead stare. The language hits a barrier. Nothing is written here. It’s all empty space. 

When you can’t put anything other than chaos down, you put nothing instead.

And this moment is nothing if it’s not chaos. It doesn’t make sense. Am I living or dying? Was I ever truly alive? If those are the questions to ask, I probably shouldn’t be arguing. 

But hell if I’m going to let him face this alone.

We limp together, or I lean into him, something like that. And too soon we’re at the Normandy, and he’s handing me off like I’m a sack of potatoes. Like this isn’t my story as much as his, now.

“Take him, James!”

“No.”

“I said don’t argue with me, Kaidan!”  _ Did you say that, John?  _ James is confused, but I’m not. He doesn’t know how to read the language. I do.

There’s so much to be said in the space of a couple heartbeats. 

A puffed chest. Tight shoulders. Raised hackles. Two sets of lips thinning; I can do that too, Shepard.

_ It has to be done. _

_ And it will be. Thirty seconds and some medigel. You’re not going without me, John. _

_ Fuck, Kaidan! _

_ Did you think I would let you do it alone? Did you think I’d stay behind again? _

If this was the language of the living- for we are both dead men, now- he’d be mumbling. 

_ No. Stubborn ass. _

And if I wasn’t afraid of looking hysterical from blood loss, I’d laugh. Commander Shepard finally gets it. 

We are fated to be here, but our destiny is our own. He doesn’t have to do it alone. And I won’t let him.

Twenty seconds. Medigel, the rush of nanomeds in my system. A single look, pregnant and full of meaning. I read gratitude in the depths of his eyes, in a place I wouldn’t be able to go if I didn’t know the language so well. He doesn’t want me to see it. He wants me to be safe. 

_ As long as Harbinger’s ugly black mug stares at us, nothing is safe.  _

_ I know, Kaidan. Let’s go. _

 

**Then: Eden Prime**

 

The connection is there from the very beginning.

See enemies, get to cover. Barrier up. A nod. Swift movement from me, the sweet, crackly smell of eezo. A Lift. Enemies dancing in the air, big blue targets for Shepard. The hiss of his breath as he exhales on the shot. Blood, alien or human, doesn’t matter. All things die the same, with a death rattle. Calm stillness in both of us, even in the face of such horror. A check to make sure the way is clear. Then another nod, another move towards cover.

When it gets heated- either the fight or my amp- it’s all about watching his six, clearing out the driftwood while he focuses on the ship barreling down. I know just by listening to his breath what he is going to do. Run. Pull back. Get into cover. Shoot. His sniper rifle goes off, a loud clack in the air, silence or chaos, it doesn’t matter. The sound is one I could recognize anywhere, one learned intimately in dreams already. Then the subtle jostling of armor and a switch to his pistol when he can’t line up a shot or when things get too overwhelming.

What is it about these first moments with him that indicate just how momentous this work will be? How do I know that I’ve found the hero? Maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s just a fool’s hope. I don’t know anything for sure, but for the first time in my life I’m close to some kind of certainty.

Everything about him screams it. He’s the closest thing to perfect a human can be.

The way he smells, sandalwood and gun oil.

The way he moves, such grace it takes my breath away.

The curve of his jaw, such unnatural beauty.

The fire in his eyes. They burn bright. Too bright. 

For the first time it occurs to me that all fire must burn itself out eventually. The natural order of things seems so cruel when you realize that, like everything else in existence, the hero too must die. Now or eventually, doesn’t matter.

I only need a second to read his eyes, the ones made of fire and ice. There is such clarity in a diamond, isn’t there? A split second of sorrow followed by determination, closing Jenkins’ eyes and standing up, facing forward. Brave. Then fear, panic, the briefest of flashes when Ashley gets stuck in the pull of the beacon. A sense of responsibility to bring her home safe, even though she isn’t under his command. Saving the galaxy, a person at a time. Even now. 

Writing the story, even now.

Unlike me, he’s been doing it from the beginning.

 

**Now: Crawl**

 

The beam trip was… disorienting… but disappointment quickly sets in. This page isn’t exciting and I want to turn it. But I’m afraid to because I know what’s coming. 

It’s a little like getting a rough draft, or an outline. I have input, or maybe I forced the author’s hand into giving me some. The general direction of the story is known, though. Let’s be honest here, it always was.

What do you do when you’re at that point in the novel where you want to keep going but you want to go back and live it all over again too? You hang over the edge, knowing the floor’s going to drop out from under you. And it’s gonna be a fun ride. You anticipate it with bated breath. 

But it’s also frightening, especially when you see where you’ll end up. That abyss is ahead. He and I both sense it. 

It’s dark in here, and quiet. Anderson comes over the comm. We head in his direction. 

I cling to John. In love. In fear. With an unspoken promise that I won’t leave his side, no matter what happens. 

Before we make it to Anderson, we share what I’m positive will be our last kiss. I don’t know what kind of idiots think they can fire this weapon and survive it, but it’s not us. 

It’s not the kind of kiss that catches like wildfire. It’s the kind that says hello and goodbye and all the things that came between. It’s the moment the floor drops from underneath you and you start the descent.

How low we have to go from here. I am determined to make it count. To keep myself  _ me _ all the way to the end. 

To fill in the gaps the author left just for us, giving us one last moment of ownership before the axe falls. 

To make sure, once and for all, that it’s the best damn story ever written.

 

**Then: The mess hall**

 

“What are you doing up at this hour, Lieutenant?”

We’re in the mess, it’s 0200, and I am fucking exhausted. So how do I answer that question. With a shrug. Because I don’t fucking know.

“Quite an answer.” 

I’m expecting him to tell me to go to bed. We’ll be at Feros in fifteen hours and he wants me along. He always wants me along. We read each other in combat like books- the best books, the ones you read over and over because they’re amazing and you can’t help yourself. You’re addicted to them.

Instead of a lecture on getting some sleep, he offers coffee. I accept.

“Ugh, is this coffee? Or is it jet fuel? I honestly can’t tell.” There’s a grimace on Shepard’s face. 

I shrug again. Wow, Alenko, you’re so fun to be around.

“You gonna talk or have you gone mute on me?”

I groan. Or growl. Or make some noise, I don’t know. His shiver is the first sign of a shadow, of a promise he isn’t quite ready to make and I’m not ready to see. I’m stupid, or slow on the uptake, or something, so I ignore it unintentionally. “I’m not much company at this hour.” Or ever.

“You telling me to scram then?”

No, I’m really not. The man has gravity, and I can’t help but be in his orbit. And I’m far from the only one. That’s why he’s Commander John Shepard, known across the galaxy as a hero. Despite the Reds. Despite Torfan. 

Though to anyone who knows him at all, those things are essential to his past. He isn’t the first human Spectre in spite of those experiences. It’s  _ because _ of those experiences.

We are quickly learning to read each other. This, what we create, is literature, the real deal- I suspect the kind that will be analyzed years along. Overanalyzed, really, because what else do people do with literature? It will become a classic. I know this, and so does he. But only those present at the creation of the story really know the truth, don’t they.

And it’s really his story. I’m just a minor character, after all. I knew I wasn’t the hero. Just a guy stuck in a plot entirely too big for me.

Falling in love with a man entirely too great for me.

So he knows I’m caught. Even before I do. 

His eyes are on me. This language is becoming familiar. He’s scared. The beacon has him scared. It’s there, just a tiny pinprick. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell. Hell, I might be the only person in the universe who can. The scowl lines on his face and the dark spots in his irises, tiny imperfections. They show that there is someone just like the rest of us in there. Something trying to breathe, trapped underneath all these labels. The thug, the Butcher, the Commander, the first human goddamn Spectre.

He’s just a man. A human. I know it. He knows that I know it, and is glad for my company. I smile at him gently, because to be honest, I’m glad for his, too.

“It’s gonna be okay, you know? We’ll catch Saren. We’ll figure this out.” And did that just come out of my mouth?

We’re both skeptical of that. But we both keep our mouths shut.

Sometimes it’s just about the words themselves. Like in a novel, where you’re incredulous and trying as hard as you can to suspend disbelief. Sometimes you just move past that part, swiftly take it in and file it. Maybe it makes sense later. Maybe not.

 

**Now: Anderson**

 

I’m not Anderson’s son. Shepard isn’t either, at least not in the conventional manner. But while he doesn’t share the language with us, he is still Shepard’s family, and so by extension, he is mine too. 

He looks bad. John has tears in his eyes even though he’s pretending they aren’t there. I don’t blame him for not wanting to admit it. 

Anderson is dying. 

We hold one hand apiece. There’s utter silence, besides the hitching breath of the Admiral’s failing body and Shepard’s tired sighs. 

A deep shudder surprises us both. Our eyes meet across his body. 

“Best seat in the house, isn’t it?”

To watch the destruction of Earth? Sure. I’ve already seen scores of men die on the race to this place, may as well appreciate the big picture. Someone should be here to understand the scope. And we three are the only ones who made it.

Or at least, the only good guys who did.

The Illusive Man’s dead eyes sit a few feet near me, but I don’t spare him another glance. Or another thought. He doesn’t matter now. 

Maybe we don’t either. Just the decision we’ll make soon. We’re vessels, meant to end with the same glassy eyes as the Illusive Man in front of me. Like all other living things end up sooner or later anyway. 

But I hate thinking that way. So I won’t. Anderson deserves better, and so does our story.

So does the man that I love.

“Shepard.” His breath is shallow now. He doesn’t have much time left. I squeeze his hand tighter on reflex. “Kaidan.” The smile he turns on me twists my heart. “My sons. I’m so proud of you both.”

His hands go slack in ours. His head slumps onto his chest. 

He’s gone.

“Anderson?” There’s not really pain in Shepard’s voice. It’s just resignation. Maybe a little bit of hope. 

But no, when I look at him, there’s no hope in his face. He knows the score, just like I do.

It occurs to me, did Anderson know the outcome of the story? Did Anderson sense that we, too, are dead men walking? 

Shepard lays a kiss to the man’s forehead as he tries to stand up. He falters, and I grab him around the waist, holding him upright. His face is drawn. He’s exhausted. I am, too, and I’m sure he can see the reflection. 

_ There’s only a little bit left, right Kaidan? _

_ Yeah, John. That’s right. _

_ I’m tired, Kaidan. _

_ I’m tired too. But I’m here with you. That’s all that matters anymore.  _

And it _ is _ all that matters. We fought to be together, and we made it here together. Everyone else will consider us galactic heroes, but that’s not what we are to each other. We’re just in love, doing what it takes to stay together every last moment we possibly can.

Once, I took my destiny back from the claws of a turian who hurt someone I loved. Now, I hold onto that destiny for the sake of someone else I love. The hero of this story.

But he isn’t just a hero. He’s  _ my _ hero. That made it all worthwhile.

 

**Then: Virmire**

 

“Why me. Why not her?” I’m baffled. Not angry, not concerned. Just, I don’t get it.

An eyebrow raised.

I furrow my own, raise a corner of my mouth just a tad. Consternation. Confusion. Misunderstanding?

He sighs. Like I should already know. Maybe this is new vocabulary for me, though. He stands, stretches. Looks back down at me. Impassive. Waiting for me to get it. 

Shepard knows I can read between the lines, make the connections. It’s all just symbolism, the dance of allegory. We’re reading this and creating this together all at once.

So make it up, Alenko. Figure it out. Read it where you can, and write it if you can’t.

I stand next to him. Peer into his eyes. They’re soft. The clarity of a diamond but now without the cutting edge. And that means…

That means it’s the climax of this particular chapter, the thing you’ve been waiting so impatiently to read. A tragedy brought us here, to this moment. To this truth. That’s what it took, but now the secret is out there. Now the plot thickens. What’s next?

Part of me wants to turn away, forget about it. To look at this directly is to understand there’s no going back. You can’t unread something. One more look at him will tell me for certain. A few more letters to put together, to figure out. 

But even if you don’t read the page, that doesn’t mean the ink isn’t set, doesn’t mean the words don’t exist. You can’t ignore it forever

The laugh lines soften, just that tiny bit, as he recognizes that I’ve read the page, that I understand the meaning. That I’m with him all the way.

I move in and take his hand, place the other on his hip. He leans in, grabs my neck, pulls me to him like a clasp, and his lips are on mine, and even they feel familiar. The way a well-loved and worn  ut book feels, soft and comforting in your hands.

“Shepard-“

“Shh. I know. I know.”

It means everything.

 

**Now: Foreshadowing**

 

Deus ex machina. Son of a bitch, I was hoping for a better ending. Not expecting, no, of course not. I suppose hope was a stupid thing to hold onto. 

Does anybody pay attention to the foreshadowing? 

We were ghosts, even so long ago. Our story will end here, and there’s nothing either of us can do about that. It’s out of our hands, had been all along. 

It’s fate. If I ever had a doubt about that, it’s gone now. The god in the machine certainly won’t let us out. There’s not even the possibility of a final battle for redemption, now. There’s no sequel. Our bodies belonged to this author since the beginning of time. We were never ourselves.

But maybe, just maybe we had been each other’s. Small comfort now, especially in the face of this, but a comfort nevertheless.

  
  
**Then: Ilos**

 

This isn’t my first experience with this kind of story, but it’s my first read-through with him and that makes all the difference. 

I suppose it’s true of every new couple that they read it in their own language. Maybe some dance it. Or paint it. I don’t know. 

All I know is that this is what  _ we _ do, he and I. 

The language of the battlefield follows us to his cabin. I’m tense; he’s tense. That deep breath before the plunge, prepping weapons, seeking cover. With a soft touch, we reach out to each other. There’s comfort there, in the way the gesture is mirrored. We’re reminding each other that it’s no different than fighting an enemy. He moves, I move. He leads, I follow.

We kiss. It’s not the first time. But this time, there’s more than a promise in it, it’s more than just plotting and outlining. It’s putting pen to paper, and then reading together what we’ve just created. And that gives us freedom.

He and I recognize that at the same time. We move back a little, to see each other’s grin. God, his face is so beautiful. His glance flows over my mouth, my face, up to my eyes, now hazel in the light of the cabin. Up and back down. Remembering the contours, memorizing every bit of it. Eyes back to my mouth, which he claims with ferocity. It’s possessive, and I melt into it.

I don’t want to read now. I want him to read it out loud, or whisper it in my ear. So I close my eyes, because that’s impossible otherwise. I’m too fluent. The eyes see too much.

He leads me to the bed, this hard rock the Alliance calls a bed, anyway. I let him push me down onto it, let him remove my clothing a piece at a time. Slowly. He’s sighing and it’s like a soundtrack to accompany the most brilliant piece of literature ever written.

Before I know it, we’re both fully naked on the bed. He’s grinding down into me, painfully hard against my own thigh, and I push up into his on reflex. I haven’t opened my eyes just yet, wanting to stay in the moment and trying not to take control. 

The words you read over and over again, burning them into your memory. Shutting everything else out so you can savor them. 

But he stops moving, and eventually I know I have to see. 

And what I see is love, the purest word ever written. Every curve, every angle, the colors, the stark contrast between his blue eyes and buzzed brown hair, the perfect imperfection of his scars. It’s written in every single detail. It is a fullness of sorts. 

I feel his mouth on mine, claiming me as his own. His lips burn patterns into my skin as they move down my body, little tattoos. I belong to him now; there’s no going back, not that I want to. His touches are caresses, barely there, raising goosebumps and causing me to arch my back into him. I want more. It’s a game to him, though. I let him read this chapter on his own, so I am at his mercy.

I can tell he’s eager for a taste of me. He makes that very clear as he devours me in one swallow. I nearly come right then and there. Wow is an understatement, but it’s all I can come up with. Because wow. It’s like he knows my every intimate detail already, sees deep into the heart and the head and the gut. Tongue like magic, doing things to me I never thought possible. Maybe they aren’t possible with anyone else. My toes curl. My body arches, curves to the left slightly, hip up and legs opening. He opens his stance, balances, corrects the trajectory. 

It’s just like the battlefield, remember? 

It isn’t long before I am ready to let go, and one look at him tells me he doesn’t want me to let go yet. I whimper.  _ Please, John, please. I need to. _ My eyes plead with him as I watch him swallow me.

_ Not yet, love. _

_ Please- God I can’t stand this anymore. _

_ Yes you can. Hold on for me.  _

_ I- but- _

He pulls back, moves up to kiss me. I taste myself on his tongue. Is it crazy that I want more? Not just myself but him, too. The way we taste together.

“Shh.” Like I’d said anything. Like those words that passed between us were spoken out loud. “We could die tomorrow, you know.” Kisses. On my jaw, down my neck.

_ Yeah, I know. Of course I know. It’s written all over you despite everything else your body and your mind and your voice say to me. I can even read it in the crew, and they don’t speak this language _ . 

“So let’s go slow, okay?”

I pull back from his face. _ I can’t when you play with me like that. How am I supposed to hold back? _

He chuckles. Again, like I’d spoken out loud. Then his eyes are on me again, understanding. I read… ruefulness in the twist of his lips and jaw. Excitement at his brow. He’s shy, too, though I can’t place that. Where is it? His movement against me, wanting but pulling and pushing and all over the place.

I reach my forehead up to meet his. Breathe deep. In. Out. He lets me lead ever so briefly. Even Commander Shepard needs a moment to relax, to collect himself, every now and then.

I can’t wait, and he doesn’t want to anymore. We both reach over at the same time, grabbing the lube from next to the bed. There was never a question about our roles here. I’m always wanting to control the story, force it my way. He lets the story be what it is, even as he moves the pen. That’s why he’s a great leader. That’s why I’m not.

I feel his finger enter me. It’s nice and slow. I lay my head back and just breathe into it. Gorgeous. Just like him. It takes him approximately half a second to find that place, the on switch, the one that will make me lose my mind. I swear we’re the same person. Maybe we were separated at birth. 

Wait, no. Don’t think that. Jesus, what’s the matter with you Alenko.

He sees me tense and then starts laughing, because it’s not the tensing that usually comes with this activity, not at all. It’s my reaction to this brain that’s constantly running on overdrive. I glare at him. He just shrugs. Nods, a nearly imperceptible tilt of the head to convey his apologies.

Then I forget everything as the second finger finds the first and my eyes roll backwards. It’s always amazing, but not like this. It’s times like now when words can’t possibly be enough. But we’re writing it together now, not just reading it, and that makes all the difference.

He’s fingering me, but not hitting my prostate every time. I can’t get off before him, after all; then I’d be oversensitive, unable to enjoy him the way I want. The way he wants me to. But I also want to come, I need to come. I’m restless. 

He sees it, knows release is necessary soon, as much as we want to stretch this moment. I watch him stroke his cock, covering it in lube. Then in one fluid motion he’s inside me, all of him, just sinking in like it’s the most natural place for him to be. 

And it is. By my side has always been where he belongs. It’s preordained. Already written. Sometimes I think we’re the creators, especially when I’m with him, but maybe we’re mere vessels for this story. 

The epics are always confusing like that. They’re experiences, never ending, timeless. Is there an author, really?

We try not to rush it. Hips rock slowly. Kisses soft and sweet, feeding passion instead of just raw need. I can feel him as he feels me, knows exactly when to switch the angle, to change the trajectory, to adjust to the wind and the dark energy so he can take the shot. We look into each other’s eyes as we come, my cock in his hand spewing hot, his own emptying itself within me. 

This moment is everything and yet it is written only once. The words are there, but the ink will fade with time. And that makes me sad. But it just means we have to keep reading. I have a feeling there will be more.

 

**Now: The abyss**

 

And now here we are. Two old soldiers standing at the edge of a precipice, staring down into an abyss and seeking the right way to jump. There’s nothing, no option that’s going to net us a win. There’s no way we climb out of this hole.

Three choices. Or we refuse to choose, and then the abyss opens wide and no creature in existence crawls out. So it’s up to us.

It’s alright. We never figured we’d make it out alive anyway.

 

**Then: Horizon**

 

“You’re looking at a legend, Delan. And a ghost.” 

Yeah. Those crystal clear blue eyes, the closely cropped hair: all John. The angular, lean body, despite the new scars lining him, marking him as belonging to someone else. Or something else. Not me, not mine any longer. But it’s John. It’s Shepard.

I know that in less than a breath. 

Then he moves with lithe grace, cat-like, and nostalgia washes over me. The old

fear of losing him. The uncontrollable pain that I spent months washing down with alcohol after I  _ did _ lose him. The stench of death is in my nostrils as I recoil from this impossibility. The sense of betrayal rising within me, stronger than anything. Stronger than my love for him? No. But damn strong nevertheless.

He tenses, reading it in my face. The nervous tics, his fingers flexing, his left eyebrow- just the left- angling down at the edge. Nose scrunching up. Flat, dead eyes, the words read slowly and through a lens, careful to filter out the sentences that might drive you mad. The grimace, lips tilted at the strange angle that is unique only to John.

It’s him. One hundred percent Shepard.  _ My _ Shepard, goddammit!

“How dare you do this to me!” I’m hissing like a snake. It’s an ugly sound. I’d rather read the words. I understand them better that way. Sound is too… messy. 

He would rather that, too, because now everything is tight. His whole body is in fight or flight. It shouldn’t have to be this way between us.

“It wasn’t me, Kaidan. I was dead for two years. I tried to contact you, to explain all of this. You have to believe me.”

Oh, I believe him all right. That man could never lie to me, not a single day in our existence together. 

Is this anger fair? He was- or believes he was- dead for two years. And now he works for Cerberus. Because they brought him back from the dead to take down the Collectors. And what does the Alliance do? Hide behind bureaucracy.

Of all the fucking plot twists there could be. 

“I can’t trust you. Not while you’re with Cerberus.”

I see the sigh before his body even moves, well before the sound hits my ears. “That’s what Anderson said. You both believe me, though. Why would I be any different now than I was then?”

And why would he be? Do I have a real answer for that, or is it just anger clouding my mind?

Or am I too emotional to read this right now? The tears are streaming and the words are blurry.

He sees it, and it hurts him just as much as it hurts me. There is such tension here, between us. The pain pulses in me and I see it reflected in the pounding at his temple. Like there’s a live wire connecting us. Electricity flows through it and the current cannot be outrun. Not by him. Not by me.

His desperation is everywhere. He looks cornered, like a deer, or some other animal of prey.

The worst part about that is that I am the predator here. I am the one that can rend his flesh from the bones. That is a power I now wish hadn’t been written into this story. But I cannot erase the ink that has already been lain. 

I force myself to calm down. Look into his eyes. He calms too, relaxes his face. Fight or flight ready to activate in a moment’s notice, but still. We’re finally reading the passages together again. The communication’s stilted, but it’s happening.

I take him in my arms, hold him, kiss him with everything I’ve got. The taste, smell, feel of John Shepard are things a person can never forget.   

He pulls back. I pull back. That easy communication, the language that is our own. We rediscover the fluency as though it had never left.  

_ Please come with me. I need you.  _

_ I needed you for two years. You weren’t there.  _

_ I’m sorry. If I could’ve changed it, I would have. Come back to me, Kaidan. _

_ Maybe, John. Go do what you have to do. Then we’ll see. _

_ If I die, it will be with your name on my lips. _

_ I know. I know. _

All these words in a second, a breath.

“Stay safe, Shepard.” The sorrow and regret fill a solid arc in those icy blue waters. My heart breaks for us all over again. This chapter is finished.

 

**Now: A moment**

 

Every moment we deliberate, millions of lives are lost. Humans, aliens, even unintentional casualties, creatures too stupid to understand their own deaths.

Are we caught in one moment or a thousand, though? How fast does time flash when you are reading the end? I can’t tell if I’m dragging one moment out because I don’t want to put the book down, or if everything is flashing by because it’s just too good and I have to keep going or go mad. Or it’s terrible and I go mad anyway. 

What the hell does any of it matter? All novels must end. Even this one.

Fate will wait for no man, and neither I nor John are exceptions.

 

**Then: Mars**

 

I recognize the language in his actions, read him in combat just like always. Barrier up. Throw. He takes the shot, breathe in, hold, shoot, breathe out. Same as it ever was. Shepard and Kaidan’s very own shooting gallery. James senses it, and so does Liara. They stand in awe; Shepard and I do, as well. How quickly it all comes back to us, this impossible magic. 

The lightning around me crackles, like it has a mind of its own. It wants to wrap itself around Shepard. Just like I do. Let myself be caught up in that gravity again. In some ways, it’d be so easy. 

But just because we still understand the language, can communicate the language, can read it and write it together, doesn’t mean we can cross this bridge. Not now, maybe not ever. Sure, we started to, back on Horizon. But there’s still a lot of baggage to carry, to go through. I’m not sure that we can ever get back to where we were before.

Am I being too cynical? Might be a little harsh, Alenko. This man is your soulmate, and you’re being stubborn. 

Turn the damn page.

We’re out of combat now. Thoughts twist in my mind, ugly ones. I’m yelling at him. It’s in English, but my body is saying something else, my face. The real language. Our language. The language of the book, the epic story we could never escape.

“Kaidan…”

“Don’t Kaidan me, this is business!” Nervous tic. That spot just above my brow, pulsing and pounding.  _ It’s not business, and we both know it _ . _ I’m scared _ . Of a lot of things, but mostly of losing him again.

His mouth tightens. Neck tenses. He rolls it, rolls the right shoulder as he stares straight at me.  _ I was dead, Kaidan. What do you not understand about that? _

“I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you, Kaidan.”

“I know, I’m sorry-”

Uh-oh. That twist of the mouth, there, that eyebrow raised. He’s exasperated. I’m the target of that exasperation.  _ What’d I do now, John? What can I do? How do we fix this? _

The furrows between his eyes, they deepen, but he stills, pays attention. 

_ Yes, I know what I’m doing, acting like a child. Yes, I still feel betrayed. Bitter. Angry. Sad. Still so very, hopelessly in love with you. You fucking idiot. _

His head rocks back on his neck, just a little. How dare I say that to him? Really? Alone for two years, pining, thinking the story was over, that I had to shut the book and leave it behind and really that was impossible. The book was opened every chance I got. I couldn’t let it go, could I? Of course not. My native tongue, which I only ever shared with him. No one lets go of their home.

He’s not speaking to me. In any language. The wheels in his head turn, I know that much. I look into his eyes and I see… something unfathomable. It scares me. 

_ How the fuck am I supposed to feel, John? _

Eyes drawn. Lines all over his face. They weren’t there before. Did I do that to him? Maybe. I don’t know. He doesn’t, either. 

I’m relieved and I feel guilty for that relief, but at least I can read what he says now. 

He feels defeated, even before this chapter has begun. I soften, not just showing it in my face but my whole body as well. A little like approaching a wild animal. There’s nothing threatening here. Everything soft. I’m with him, but he has to understand what happened to me. I don’t know if I could’ve thrown that book away eventually, but it was dog-eared and sick. The fear I’d lose that language forever. The guilty hope that maybe I would. If I could never have him back? Better to be gone forever. Better to rid myself of any hope that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. 

But I just couldn’t. Maybe because it wasn’t over and I knew it. Maybe because the epics can’t just be tossed aside like that.

There’s so much to say here, and no time to say it. Cerberus is here, the Reapers have arrived, we have to go. 

Helmets back on, but now, there is a splash of… something in his eye. Compassion. Head tilted, just so, to the left. Chin up, not down.  _ This isn’t fair, is it? Now look where we are. We’ll figure a way out of this, Kaidan. I promise _ .

I’m dropping my eyes. Just a little. An acknowledgement. But we have to leave.

Suddenly, the synthetic is there. Evil, or maybe not. Just following orders.

Draw the pistol. Fire it. Feel myself being picked up, dashed against the shuttle, Shepard’s yell of panic lost in the static now clouding my mind.

Nothing.

Is this the end, so soon? Surely you don’t end the novel before the story’s over, right?

 

**Now: Ruthless calculus**

 

What did Garrus call it? The ruthless calculus of war? The people who are dying now. The questions we are both weighing. Even in believing the conclusion is correct, it’s an imperfect problem. 

Unfortunately, none of this is truly calculus. That makes sense. That is logic. 

This is not. It’s language, words, the weaving of plot and character and the whims of an author that is itself imperfect. 

So if it doesn’t make sense, is that our fault? How much of this did we have a hand in creating? What are we reading, what are we writing, what is our role here? 

Even as I ask myself whether there is a way out, I know the answer. John is tense beside me. He knows it, too.  
  


**Then: Huerta Memorial**

 

This bed sucks. I’ve been here for what, years now? There’s a war on. There are too many chapters I’m missing. It shouldn’t be this way. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. 

What happened to carpe diem? A man cannot exercise such a thing without ink and paper, and I can find neither. Not in this damnable place. Not even now that I can walk around and touch things other than what’s within reach of my bed. 

Is it because he isn’t here? After Alchera, before Horizon, I thought the story was over. His story, and in conjunction with that, mine. 

Do I exist outside the pages of this tale?

Perhaps I’m floating in some theoretical space, like the characters who come in and out of the story, not really mattering except for their use in pushing the plot forward. That part of my life doesn’t matter, whatever it is that I am outside of Shepard’s greatness. 

It’s a delusion of grandeur to think that just because the hero needs you, that means the story belongs to you.

Or maybe you’re thinking too much, Alenko.

Now he comes, and I forget everything else. Whether I can seize this or not, at least he’s here.

_ How are you? _

_ Missing you. _ No need for small talk.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. Right there, at the corner of his eye. 

Meaning:  _ Yeah. Me too. _

_ So what do we do now? _

_ What do you mean, what do we do now? The story’s ours, isn’t it? _

_ If you hadn’t noticed, I’m kinda stuck. _ I say it with a half smile. 

_ Well then I’m gonna bust you out.  _

I love that mischievous smirk.

_ No, Shepard. There’s a few more things to wrap up here. _

A snort. Meaning:  _ Is it more important than we are? _

_ You know that’s not it. _

A soft laugh to go with a soft smile. _ I do know. But Kaidan? We know what has to be done. Don’t take long. _

_ A week. Give me a week. Then I’m all yours. _

_ You’re all mine now. _

Yeah, I always was, wasn’t I?

I salute him with a snort of my own. “Aye aye, sir.” 

The salarian doctor in the hall is close enough to have heard. He looks around, baffled at the abrupt change from silence to the acknowledgement of orders received. Knowing he’s missed something, maybe something important. It’s the Shepard-Alenko team, after all. We’re not exactly inconspicuous.

He salutes me back. “Congratulations on becoming a Spectre. You’re made for the job, Alenko. Hope to see you back on the Normandy soon. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.” 

_ Come back to me, Kaidan. _ The echo of Horizon ringing off the hospital walls, only this time there’s harmony in it, instead of that ugly dissonance.

He walks away, back straight and head high. Meaning:  _ I’ll be out there fighting the good fight. For you. For us _ . 

I miss him already. There’s not going to be enough time. This novel is too damn short.

 

**Now: Checking the math**

 

I’m not looking at him yet. I’m redoing the math, crossing the t’s, dotting the i’s. Coming to the right conclusion and checking over my work. Without a glance at him, I know he’ll come to the same conclusion I do. There’s only one way down.

But now that it’s here, now that it’s all we can see, we still try desperately to find another way. I suppose that’s human nature, and none of us can escape it. 

Is there some kind of math that gets us out of this?

One time, EDI asked Shepard if you could find a place far enough away from here where one plus one equalled three, where it was possible the Reapers didn’t and couldn’t exist. 

But if that place is real, we couldn’t exist there, either. This is our reality, and we live by the rules already in place. Our very atoms depend upon those rules. 

Would we leave if we could? Our friends are here, our families. Everything and everyone we’ve ever known and loved. Could we abandon them to the harvest? 

Even if given the option, no. Even if we could live forever, together, in another life, another universe free of this evil, we wouldn’t. 

This story will last forever, and through it, so will we. Together.

That’s enough. It has to be enough.

Besides that, it’s an impossibility. The hand of fate guides me, the hand of destiny is my own, but this is no choose your own adventure. You can’t turn to a page that doesn’t even exist.

So the math checks out, and we make the decision. 

It is, after all, what we came here to do. 

 

**Then: Apollo’s**

 

Everything is beautiful. We’re creating the language again, learning new vocabulary, writing it, reading it, showing it to each other. It’s not just on the battlefield, either. It’s off of it, too. It’s everywhere. 

What are these words, really? Going through the motions. This part is easy, this part we can read between the lines, understand the meaning. It’s just skimming. 

“I don’t know… maybe I’m just choosy...”

A raised eyebrow, the right one.  _ Really, Kaidan? More like cheesy. _

_ I can’t just stare at you all day, people would think we’re weird. _

Right side of his face quirked up, left brow- but just the brow- with it. Just a bit.  _ We are weird, Kaidan. _

“Well that’s what I want. What do you want?” 

Like I don’t know. As I said, going through the motions. Reading between the lines. It’s so obvious what he wants.

The date, the battlefield. The friendship, companionship, brotherhood. But more. 

My legs wrapped around him, pulling him close. His breath in my ear, mine on his neck. Moving together. Touching every inch of skin possible. No one can do this, love each other, like we do. Never like us.

He and I. Forever. All that that entails. 

_ Just say it. And we can go back to the ship. _

He glances away. A blush? Yeah, Commander John Shepard is blushing. My lips quirk, twist, just so. 

_ Flustered? _

“You and me, Kaidan? Is that what you mean?”

I roll my eyes at him now.  _ Fucking duh.  _

Then the smirk. The one everyone can read; it’s spoken in every language that’s ever existed. My hand twitches, lifts off the table, two fingers and the palm.  _ Please, John, touch me. I know we’re in public. But touch me _ .

His hand reaches out and takes mine. He takes the lead. I follow. 

As it’s always been. As it will ever be.

Or maybe not quite ever.

  
  
**Now: Turn the page**

 

I’ve done the math. I won’t second guess it. Or maybe I already did second guess it by checking it over. 

That wasn’t because I thought it wrong, though. It was because I hoped  _ I _ was wrong. 

There was a calculation that netted me an answer. But remember how I said it wasn’t calculus, not really? It’s still plot. There’s still interpretation left. What does the symbolism say, what is the meaning?

Numbers can guide our decisions, but they don’t make them for us.

That part’s over now, though. No point in dwelling on it. 

There’s still one disagreement, one argument, left to have. It’s the climax. The part that gets the reader’s heart pumping, makes them sit up in their chair at odd hours of the night, unable to put the book down. Knowing the end is coming, and recognizing now, finally, that it’s going to hurt. The words will cause you pain. They’ll stick with you afterwards, like daggers that you carry around, waiting to stab you in the night when you least expect it. 

What’s written on the page is not important. Only the meaning behind the words matters.

Didn’t I say we wouldn’t make it back from the abyss?

But then the page turns anyway. You can’t read backwards, after all.

 

**Then: Rannoch**

 

I’m walking the ship and my face and body are doing weird things, flips and jitters and half-steps and stomps. The crew is terrified of me. As they should be. 

I am going to flay Shepard alive. 

But of course all anyone feels is energy. Like when someone else is reading, and they cry or gasp or throw the damn book across the room. The watchers know the emotion is there, but the nuances are lost on them. 

They won’t be lost on John.

He’s on the ship now. Do we do this in front of the crew? 

Depends. What will they see? Some languages share roots, and some people are sharper than others. Right now I think I don’t care. If he’s embarrassed, ashamed, scared, so be it. 

I see him first. Wide smile. Standing straight up. Stretching the arm, a loving glance at the weaponry as he kits down. What’s cute sometimes can be downright ridiculous other times, right? 

In one mood, a passage might be funny. In another, it might terrify you. Yet it’s all the same somehow.

My heart, he loves. And my heart, he will fear.

Everything instantly changes the moment he sees me. I feel tense, like the deep, still moments before the mountain erupts. I’m gripping the book and it’s creasing. His eyes carry alarm, a big pool of it, spiraling out and diffuse.  _ Don’t break the book. _

_ Oh? It all falls apart then, does it? _

_ Why? _

I know what he’s talking about, but it barely registers. The anger is up to eleven now. His eyes widen and now he is afraid of me. My body is glowing. It’s not like a reave is at the tip of my fingers, but this is power. Only tight control keeps the power inside me, and he’s pushing it.

Everyone leaves the room. They don’t want to be a part of this.

_ Are you fucking kidding me? _ Had I been talking, my voice would have been low, dangerous. Instead, everything is relaxed, hunkered down. Face carefully blank, expression neutral. Eyes on fire, where the violent eruption threatens. The calm before the explosion, and now it’s being pulled ever closer to its glory. 

I’m not just going to throw the book, or even burn it. I’m going to perform a mystic fucking ritual to destroy it.

_ It all ends if you throw this away now. I can’t live without you, Kaidan. _

_ So you stand in front of a Reaper with nothing but a targeting laser? That’s how you show me? Clearly you don’t understand that you can easily die without me. _ I don’t have the energy to keep this up; against my will, my body is failing. He sees my will falter. Fuck him.

_ I did what I had to do.  _

_ You didn’t have to do that, John. Your team is behind you. Nobody stands in front of a fucking Reaper like that, especially not alone. It’s not a playground. _

I can see him wanting to throw his hands up like a toddler. Maybe have a breakdown, a tantrum.  _ Why do you have to be like this, John. _

I  _ do _ throw up my hands. The book is set down. I walk away from it. There’s a crease in the side, and it’s damaged there, but that’ll give it character. Maybe. At least it won’t fall apart, now.

 

**Now: Climax**

 

We turn at the same time, like a well-oiled machine. Here comes the climax. The argument. The disagreement. I steel myself as the determination straightens his spine, makes him The Commander. Everyone is cowed in front of that. 

But I am not. He is my Shepard. 

_ Go, Kaidan. _

_ No. _

_ That’s an order. You’re my subordinate. Go. _

_ I’m not on your ship. I outrank you here _ .

It’s impossible to outrank anyone here. This isn’t a real place, it’s a dream sequence. 

I catch the way my right eye tightens, my right leg twists, the wince. What bullshit, really. Alenko, always full of it. Shepard, always catching him out.

Nostrils flare.  _ We’re wasting time. You know you’re not going down there with me. _

_ Yeah, John, yeah I fucking am. _

_ There’s no need for us both to die. _

_ Stop this. _

_ Kaidan. Go.  _

_ You know, you ordered me to do that once before. How’d that turn out? _

_ Fuck, Kaidan. You think I want to die now? That I wanted to die then? _

_ This story only ends one way, John. You cannot stop me. So why are you fighting it? _

The laugh lines tighten, a brief moment. Then his face flattens, falls. Despair. 

_ I fought this war for you. You have to live. _

_ I fought this war for you, too. You go, I go. _

He’s lost the argument. For once, I lead and he follows. This is the only place where that matters for me, has always been the only place that it  _ would _ matter.

_ Together, then? Til the end? _

Oh, my love. 

_ Together. _  
  


_ _

 

**Then: Illusive Man’s base**

 

The night before was the last night we’d ever share. It’s there in our bones, that knowledge. That kind of language is written, the ink drying or dried or old now, perhaps.

The end is coming and not enough has been said. Seems like no matter how much time there is, we can’t ever say it all. The story cannot go on forever. All things must end. Yet I find I  _ have _ to say it, or write it, or read it all, somehow. Or at least I have to try.

Stubborn I was in the first chapter, and stubborn I am in the last. 

I said it with my body last night, our hearts beating wildly, reckless, moving in tandem on our shared bed. Now that grace we share is on the battlefield, and it’s even more desperate. Reaving, rending bodies in twain. Shooting them, cursing them for bringing us here, to our end. 

There’s not enough goddamn _ time _ . 

Each moment could be goodbye. That was always true, wasn’t it? In its own way, I guess. But somehow it  _ is _ true, now. The plot armor that the heroes enjoyed, it’s gone now. This is the test of their resolve. 

So I’m telling him, with every move, every glance, every single breath how much I love him. John Shepard, my heart and soul.  
  
  


**Now: Denouement**

 

The walk is long. We’re quiet. The pulse is done racing, the heart rate is dropping, adrenaline no longer flowing through the reader’s veins. We know the outcome now. We made the choice, when? A few minutes ago, an hour ago? Days ago, maybe. I don’t know. Neither does Shepard. 

Maybe we didn’t make the choice at all. What is an author, anyway? A collective unconscious? Is there a third eye watching over us? I’m still not sure if we are creators or created, writers or readers. Or just some kind of capital T Truth.

Do I believe in fate? In this moment… yes. There was never another way into the abyss. The imperfect calculus had a right answer despite its imperfection. The last pages are turning now. The ending will leave us in darkness, but we know we did what we set out to do. I am proud, and so is he.

But our destiny, the parts of this story that we’ve created, not just read but made with our own hands… that is something more profound than anything else, even the epic ending of our tale. That is what will linger, what will last until the end of days. Not the what, but the  _ how _ .

It’s close enough. We stop. I stare at him, and he at me. 

I’m reminded of that L word, how little it can really say to explain what I see and feel in this moment. It’s everything, it always was. It’s the reason we did this, and why we sacrifice our lives now. There’s a reason for all of it, and it isn’t just because it  _ has _ to be this way.

I close my eyes, overwhelmed. Open them. He does too. In sync. Hands brush cheeks, the touch ever so slight. It’s the right choice, but the tears flow over anyway. How could we have read this book together and not cry at the end?

It might be the right choice, but we’re only human. He was right on Mars. This isn’t fair. But it is what it is.

The Reapers die here, tonight.

This is what’s written. The last page. Not much further to go.

Deep breath.

_ You go, I go. _

_ You go, I go. _

Pistols out, my right and his left hand. Cocked. Loaded. Ready to aim, shoot, end it all.

Hands clasped, my left and his right hand. Squeeze. 

I turn. My eyes meet his. 

_ Together? _

_ Together. _

We don’t need words. We don’t need a countdown. We never did.

  
  


 

 


End file.
